Entremet Originally shared by Kam-Yung Soh "“Like most people in the US, I grew up knowing the words to this carol and even (shudder) singing them occasionally (singing is not a strong point of mine), but never really thought about what they meant, how the carol originated, or what birds were involved”, says Dr Rasmussen in email. So she decided to figure it out. Dr Rasmussen, who’s tied for third for the most bird discoveries in the world, is probably also the world’s foremost avian sleuth, due to her meticulous detective work a few years ago that uncovered the many ornithological thefts and records frauds in museums that were committed by eminent British ornithologist, Richard Meinertzhagen. But who would ever have thought that an old Christmas carol might also hold an avian mystery? “After all, it’s just a Christmas carol!” Dr Rasmussen points out." https://medium.com/@GrrlScientist/meet-the-real-birds-of-the-twelve-days-of-christmas-fame-grrlscientist-5a8bc09350c9
I never stopped but I think pretty much every digital interface corrects for it.
ReplyDeleteThis is clearly a propaganda piece. Planted by that evil, evil, evil minion of The Single Space: Cara Evangelista.
ReplyDeleteThe Witness :: J. L. Borges
ReplyDeleteIn a stable that stands almost within the shadow of the new stone church a gray-eyed, gray-bearded man, stretched out amid the odors of the animals, humbly seeks death as one seeks for sleep. The day, faithful to vast secret laws, little by little shifts and mingles the shadows in the humble nook. Outside are the plowed fields and a deep ditch clogged with dead leaves and an occasional wolf track in the black earth at the edge of the forest. The man sleeps and dreams, forgotten. The angelus awakens him. By now the sound of the bells is one of the habits of evening in the kingdoms of England. But this man, as a child, saw the face of Woden, the holy dread and exultation, the rude wooden idol weighed down with Roman coins and heavy vestments, the sacrifice of horses, dogs, and prisoners. Before dawn he will die, and in him will die, never to return, the last eye-witness of those pagan rites; the world will be a little poorer when this Saxon dies.
Events far-reaching enough to people all space, whose end is nonetheless tolled when one man dies, may cause us wonder. But something, or an infinite number of things, dies in every death, unless the universe is possessed of a memory, as the theosophists have supposed.
In the course of time there was a day that closed the last eyes to see Christ. The battle of Junin and the love of Helen each died with the death of some one man. What will die with me when I die, what pitiful or perishable form will the world lose? The voice of Macedonio Fernandez? The image of a roan horse on the vacant lot at Serrano and Charcas? A bar of sulpher in the drawer of a mahogany desk?